


The Connection Between Crow and Casteless

by GaHoolianGirl



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: M/M, This is pretty fluffy with a small tinge of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-05-01 00:32:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5185406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GaHoolianGirl/pseuds/GaHoolianGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Who gets these ‘tattoos’? Are they to separate the Crows? Or do they make all elves bear them?”</p><p>“They are actually fairly uncommon. No one is forced to get one. I asked for and paid for these.”</p><p>The dwarf shot up, blanket slipping from him, and he stared dead in Zevran’s eyes, his own eyes alight with intrigue and excitement, “You...asked for them?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Connection Between Crow and Casteless

**Author's Note:**

> I just thought this was a cute idea. This is the formal introduction of my Brosca, Ghaharen. I haven't beaten his playthtough, but I figured I didn't need to.

Ghaharen Brosca would swear under the watchful eyes of all the ancestors that he had never seen anyone or anything as beautiful as Zevran. He didn’t know if it was the pure fact that he was new and therefore exciting, or it was the elf’s merits that made him think this. From the moment he stepped out of the gates of Orzammar everything was new. The bright blue color of the sky, the varieties of soft greens on the grass and in the trees. The crispness of the air and the light of the sun and the glow of the moon were all feelings and sensations and images he could not even dream of.

But Zevran...Zevran gave him a different feeling than all of those. The elf’s movement was elegant and had a style that he had never witnessed in the sharp edges and dull stone of Orzammar. His body was toned and lean, and lead Ghaharen’s eye to the tantalizing tease of that leather skirt he wore. He spoke with an exotic accent that made the dwarf want to listen to him talk until he found his place in the Stone. And the mark he bore on his face...it created a connection between the Crow and the casteless.

When Zevran offered him a place in his tent (or rather invited himself into the Warden’s tent (it didn’t seem like he was picky about whose tent honestly)), Ghaharen of course jumped at the offer. By the Stone he had never made such a good decision in his life (though he could count those on his hands anyway). It was an experience that could never be recreated, through they tried many nights afterwards.

One such night, they lay together, basking in the afterglow of the kind of sex you can only have after leaving a life threatening situation. In their case, they were celebrating the placement of a dwarven king and the knowledge that they wouldn’t have to go back to the Deep Roads for a long while.

Ghaharen rested his head against Zevran’s chest, and gave into the temptation if tracing the markings that were splayed across the elf’s torso. His thick fingers moved up and down the lines with fascination, earning an amused look from their owner.

“What do these brands mean?” the dwarf asked, not lifting his eyes from his area of interest.

Zevran raised an eyebrow, “Brands?” He processed the question for moment, before releasing a small _ah!_ “They mean a variety of things. Secret symbols of the crows, sensual things, and as means to draw the eye where I want. As I have succeeded in with you. However, in Antiva, they are called tattoos.”

“ _Tat-toos_ ,” the Warden played with the word on his tongue, “ _Tat-toooos_. Who gets these ‘tattoos’? Are they to separate the Crows? Or do they make all elves bear them?”

The elf looked at him curiously, “They are actually fairly uncommon. No one is forced to get one. I asked for and paid for these.”

The dwarf shot up, blanket slipping from him, and he stared dead in Zevran’s eyes, his own eyes alight with intrigue and excitement, “You...asked for them?”

“Yes?”

Ghaharen’s inspired looked quickly turned bitter, and he touched the brand on his face, up from his cheek to where it extended over his brow. The symbol beneath that ruled his life for more than twenty years, “There was no choice for me. This was an way to keep me in line.”

The elf sat up as well, and the blanket lost its purpose as it bunched at their hips, no longer shielding them from the cold. He held a hand out and traced the mark with his long, deft fingers, “Shall I give it new meaning?”

“How do you mean?”

“I have my instruments, and I could add onto your mark,” he smiled warmly at his Warden, “Re-brand you, if you will.”

“You would...” the disbelief was evident in the dwarf’s voice, and his eyes were large and wet as he gazed at his bedmate, “Re-brand, huh...” His laid his hand atop the one already on his cheek, and the tent was only filled with a tender silence. Gahaharen released Zevran's hand, and let his own hang at his side.

“Yes. Do it.”

“My pleasure. What shall I do?”

His brows knit together, and his voice was low and passionate, “Something about the Grey Wardens. Something me. I want it to be a mark, a tattoo as you say, that will let people know that it’s Ghaharen Brosca they’re looking at. And so they'll never, ever forget.”

Zevran bit his lip and and examined the Warden’s face closely. After a moment are intense silence and contemplation, the elf finally spoke, “I cannot think of anything now. I need to sleep on it.”

The dwarf’s jaw hung down for a moment, before he laughed so uproariously that he probably woke more of their companions than their usual sex did. He leapt at Zevran in a playful tackle (which still managed to knock the wind from the bony elf), and rested his face in his chest, still vibrating with laughter. “You are absolutely...absolutely...”

“Awesome?” He could hear the grin in his voice.

“Yes. That you are. Thank you, Zevran,” he said with lingering mirth. He shut his eyes and snuggled into the chest he lay on, closing his eyes.

The elf ran his fingers through the dwarf’s coarse hair, the repetition lulling him to sleep,  “You are quite welcome, my Warden.”•

**Author's Note:**

> How did I do? I like it.


End file.
